I have no formal training–I’m left totally to my own devices. I don’t have enough time to complete my tasks and I’m woefully undercompensated. My under aged staff is completely uncooperative, thwarts my efforts, and asks for way too many snack breaks.

I’m talking about the housekeeping aspect of my current gig as a mom.

Let me be frank: I suck at it. (Don’t you find brutal honesty refreshing? Sorry mom, while you forbade me to say ‘sucks’ while under your roof, you also told me to always tell the truth. I believe that’s called a ‘quandary’.)

If it were my professional job, I’d definitely get written up. But since I spoon with the only other grown up in charge of this joint, there are never any real consequences, except for my own feelings of housekeeper inadequacy, or, as I prefer to say, ‘inadequas housekeeperis’. It’s the new Latin for, “You suck so bad at cleaning, no one would even hire you to clean for free!”

See, when I decided to stay home with my kids and quit my job, I decided I couldn’t justify paying for a cleaning woman when I was making zeros dineros. I figured, big deal, I’d be home, I could just do it. Well, that was before I realized little urchins would try to swim in the toilet as I cleaned it, eat crumbs from the dustpan as I swept, and hang on the vacuum and chomp on the cord. For real, people!

That’s when I proclaimed, “To hell with it! I’ll do it at night when they’re sleeping!”

And then? A little American Idol here, some blogging there, and the house, well, let’s just say it probably wasn’t the best sign when I started naming the dust bunnies. But yo, check it out—I finally got my girls. Mm hmm. (What? I’m not crazy. No, I’m not!)

I wonder if my cleaning woman knows I miss her so. (Do you think she misses me? Yeah, $90 every other week says probably not.) I keep hoping Santa will bring her back to me, but I guess I’ve just been too naughty. (Okay, get your mind out of the gutter. This is muffintopmommy, not Harlequin.)

Anyway, ‘hem, I keep threatening to form a cleaning union, but frankly, I’ve neither the time nor the inclination. I can’t even be passionate about my plight because I despise it so. I actually have friends who ENJOY cleaning. I do. I have it in writing and I’m not afraid to expose them. You know who you are, you sickos!

To me, enjoying cleaning something is just unfathomable. You might as well tell me you dig having pap smears, doing your taxes or running into your old nemesis–who is skinnier and better looking than ever. Come on now! I simply don’t believe you. I don’t.

I would rather shot gun a bottle of Lysol instead of clean with it.

Hello poison control? Please stand by…..

Due to me being completely useless as a “homemaker” (Btw, what in the name of popcorn does that term mean anyway? Kind of overstating your ability there June Cleaver and the gang. You made your home my ass. Like you built the thing from scratch in that ridonkulous get up, sporting your pearls while you vacuum–it’s because of YOU I’m now inadequate–wet Swiffering only when completely necessary in my XL Merona sweats!)

What?

Gimme a break. Someone needed to say it. June set us all up to fail. And we think show nowadays are unrealistic? Bottom line: my home looks like a cyclone hit it some days and probably sounds like it, too.

Bite me, June.

SEE WHAT I MEAN? SEE! SEE! SHOWOFF!

I should clarify I do have some pride as my home is really more cluttery than dirty–even I have my standards. Between the toys and books and shoes and everyday junk it just sort of spirals at times. Now my husband—he seems to have higher standards than I, and has little appreciation for the squalor in which we currently live. (Probably watching too many reruns of the Beav. But fricking Ward only worked like 9 to 5 and had a five minute commute. Screw those Cleavers! I should also remind the hubs they shacked in twin beds.)

I rest my case.

Like many hubs, I know he understands my primary goal is to take care of our kids, not our toilets. He definitely maybe knows I don’t sit around eating Bon Bons all day. (I don’t even know what a Bon Bon is–why are moms always accused of sitting around chowing on them? If I’m gonna nosh on anything all day, it ain’t gonna be no random Bon Bon. Salty snacks or bust, baby!)

No, he realizes I’m busy as a short order cook, bottle washer, tush wiper, clothing outfitter/laundress, grocery schlepper, driver extraordinaire, martyr! This, when I’m not reading to them, helping select their favorite on demand tv shows, Tarjay-ing, slurping coffee, and Facebooking. BUSY, BUSY, BUSY! Take that, June! I mean, honestly, without Facebook, twitter, online shopping, talk shows and Tarjay runs, no wonder June had nothing better to do than vac in pearls. And everyone knows moms back then trapped their kids in baby jail aka ‘play pens’. (Um, hello, pen…as in…penitentiary?) I actually let my kids out of the confines of an indoor four foot by four foot fencing and do stuff with them, June. I, and society, prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt before we send them down river to the clink.

The hubs does help with the cleaning, but he has no more free time than I do. But every now and then he’ll have a relative shit fit about the condition of our home, stomp his foot, and beg me to hire a cleaning woman.

Then I get on my dusty soapbox and say, “Listen moneybags, while this would thrill me to no end since I am the unfortunate one who cleans the toilets, how can we justify it when we’re on one salary? I feel like if we can find the money for that, then we should save it for something else, because we’re certainly not swimming in it!” At our fictitious summer home…sigh…pass me my Dunks coffee please….cream, one sugar.

“But hon, seriously. We have NO time to clean. I honestly think my throat is scratchy from all the dust. And think about the kids’ rooms–how much cleaner the air would even be!” He’s pulling out all the stops now—hitting below the belt saying even our AIR is dirty! And bringing the kids breathing into it, like I don’t have enough mothers’ guilt between on demand cable and cheap produce that isn’t organic!! Now I have visions of them gasping for breath during nap time. If I can’t clean hard surfaces adequately, how am I gonna clean AIR?

“Listen, I just don’t think this is in our budget right now. What don’t you understand?” We live in New Hampshire, not Fantasy Island, dear. Da plane? Not coming.

“We can swing it. We can. We’ll just get take out less.” Gasp! Does he NOT even know me? The husband giveth, but the husband taketh away? I beg your pardon, mtm don’t play that way! I’d rather scrub a nasty toilet used for potty training than lose my one true love, red chicken curry and siam rolls! It’s time to play hardball.

“Ok. You really want a cleaning lady? Which would you like to give up? Food or clothes?”

“Fine, Janet, you win.” I win? Kind of a hollow victory there, husband, when I walk away STILL having to clean wretched toilets, used mostly by people with “peanuts”, in the five minutes of spare time I currently have. Oooh Bob Barker, what do I win next? The chance to clean out the gutters? Yeah, let’s spin that wheel.

If he ever calls my bluff, btw, I’m thinking we’ll give up food, because then we’d look better in our clothes. Really, since I’m the lucky one who pays the bills (Another brilliant move…put the English major in charge of the finances…we are so never affording that fancy assisted living with the open bar. Damn.) that usually ends the debate until the next round of dust bunnies make their appearance.

At which point, I’m gonna put my feet up, turn up the volume on Idol and say, “Great to have you back, girls!”